Fill me up to the brim,
I want all your love,
Make my cup overflow,
I want all your love
or absolutely nothing.
Mum, dad,
I think I'm inlove
with a ghost,
and I'm his haunted house
He haunts me all night long,
Mum, dad,
He's taking up too much
space in my heart,
I fear he'll rip me apart
like all my anonymous notes
declaring love that would never
be given back
but that's backtrack;
here and now,
he's mine,
he's mine until I finally catch fire,
Until love expires.

We won't be friends for long,
I'm sorry but you've done me wrong.
You've dug a hole in my mind,
and I can see in black
but you've made me colourblind.
I've grown accustomed to
having you around,
I've grown accustomed to
your white noise.
But surrendering was never my choice,
I want nothing less than gold,
I never wanted my soul to be sold...
I've spent too many nights
crumbling, folding, imploding
I've spent too many days
wearing a mask that portrays
that my mind is okay...
I've spent too much time in your shade,
I want to see the sun again,
I'm afraid I'll lock you in the very cage
you made for me,
and this time *I'll be free.

I've two sides;
Anti's the one I'm not.
I start to decipher black from white,
I start to part two halves of my mind,
separating the moon from the sun,
bathing in this runner's high;
Tonight I won't say goodbye,
I'll just whisper *"Goodnight."

Your eyes looked like
you'd never want to leave,
Your hands seemed to be
crafting something beautiful,
something, something
like the breath of a shadow,
the hope you'd decide to stay,
but now it is me, not you
that wants to roam away.

Why have you not left yet?
I've heard that when you
combine my fading heartbeat
with the tears parading down my face,
a haunting melody is produced...
I swear to God, it's your favourite song
and you keep abusing the replay button,
but you still don't know me.

The heart inhabiting my chest
is not my own,
I'm sorry but it had to be done,
I can't love you darling,
I've borrowed someone else's heart,
traded my softness for something
twice as hard.

It is a mess -
But it's MY mess.
That makes it valid,
it gives this mess a purpose...
Even walls get lonely when
they have been too bare for too long.
Don't you get lonely too?
Putting everything in its place,
folding your days away with your
perfect, delicate hands,
don't you wish you could live?
Yes, there is such a thing
as living outside of
perfectly folded napkins,
perfectly sparkling doors,
so much urge and
want for perfection,
it makes me want to puke
all over your perfectly shining floor.
Have you ever considered that
sometimes more is less?
A mess to you
is not a mess to me,
my mess ain't there to serve you
my mess is there to serve me.

Sometimes, I wish
I was as deep as the surface -
only what you see in front of you.
It bothers me that when
people look into my eyes,
they don't see pupils
enveloped by blue,
they become mesmerized
and tell me they can see the ocean
and they're **** right;
in my soul there is an ocean
of threatening commotion,
but I wish it weren't visible
by simply looking at me.

I wish people would not tell me
that I am an open book
because I know that
I am the complete opposite;
what I tell you is just
scratching the protective walls
I immerse myself in,

Don't dare tell me you can read me
when my mind speaks in
linguistic hieroglyphs
not even I comprehend at times,
let alone you, a complete stranger.

In the middle of nowhere
is where I'd like to be,
clouds for a roof,
enveloped by trees,
driving into infinity
far, far away
from everyone and everything,
fleeing the persecution
of my mind,
here at least I know
my only purpose
is to breathe
and I shall write thoughtless verses
take me somewhere thoughts
cease to be.

Somedays, even sunshine is dull
and somedays his name
will make me physically ill.

Somedays, I don't need
to be reminded
that my laughter is loud
and so obvious,
somedays, I don't need
you to pull me,
I just need a rope.

And somedays I won't comprehend
how you can't understand.

You could say it's
all in my head,
it doesn't exist,
just a result of
a hope that persists
but,

There's got to be
something better than this..
Were humans and the world
just dropped and born
out of nowhere,
just to be dumped in eternal misery?
And if angels exist, where
do you think they live?
Not in the air or else
we'd be breathing them in constantly.

The afterlife exists
even for disbelievers,
Some call it Heaven,
some call it Hell...
What will it be?
Only dying will tell.

This is a poem for me, to me.

You have a horrible singing voice
but God knows,
singing while you wash away
dishes somehow makes
cleaning your heart
less cumbersome.

I've been worried about you;
you seem to be craving
a psychopathic thrill,
the kind where you feel
everything but remorse;
what a change of course,
you didn't let the monsters change you,
did you?

Intensity sprawls over
your dainty skin,
either full equilibrium
or capsizing until you sink,
either confessing to possessing
a soul gone obsidian
or your confessions completely shrink.

Girls like you
are the reason why you don't see
many small kids out late at night;
you're either fully pacific
or completely acidic,
either lulling stability and resolution
or chaos enveloped by your convulsions.

You're a ******* storm...
Now make sure the world knows.

(I want I want I want)

A morning fully complete,
weakened mood,
tears on the bed sheets.

Thoughts of you
should lift me higher,
but quite opposite,
erode my mind.

Thinking in grey
comes as easy
as breathing;
as easy as my shallow breaths
begging to hear gun shots,
but somehow this nightmare,
somehow you are not vile enough
to make me want to leave.

Thinking in technicolor
is a caustic riddle, puzzle
for my migraine to solve
give me back existence,

(My skin my skin my skin)

I do not know what I am feeling,
I do not know what I am feeling,
but I feel like an abandoned
collector's case left in a corner
to rot or do as I please without
so much but the guidance of the wind.

But the wind is not stable
and therefore neither am I,
I cannot tell whether I'm
imagining this all or
seeing it with my very eyes.
Reality and fantasy have
merged into one and
I can no longer tell the difference
between a dream or everyone's nightmare;
I die in both.

I do not know what I am feeling,
I do not know what I am feeling,
but if my soul's exterior had any texture,
right now it'd be peeling;
no it is not beautiful and it
cannot make fake roses
like an orange peel might.
There are no flowers here,
only a garden of late nights and tears.

Outside, spring is evolving
Inside, my lungs are decomposing.
I do not know what I am feeling,
I do not know what I am feeling,
but I feel like an abandoned collector's
case left in a corner;
I am a case long closed ,
given up on and
I am collecting dust.

6 minutes to 12 am,
I'm your prisoner again,
my breath stains the windows
of this house,
this house is asleep.

Won't awaken to my needs,
Won't keep me full,
my soul needs a feed,
Cannot differentiate
my happiness from my sadness
both are equally opposites extremes.

This is nothing permanent,
Just my mind gone funny,
drained from the ways
I spent my day,
I have this tendency to
take a step forward and leap
and keep running from
what my mind binds me to,
I don't want to feel for you,
I don't want to feel for anyone anymore.
If you leave, at least
shut the ******* door.